


Impenetrable

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF John, But he's new to this, Dom/sub, M/M, New Relationship, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, but really bottomlock, fear of anal sex, slightly Dom/sub if you squint, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The idea of physically, literally, opening himself up for John was appealing; indeed, there was nothing he would want more. The more he thought about it, the more appealing it became. Sherlock was not shy about his body. He wasn’t afraid of being seen.</p><p><em>He was afraid of being exposed</em>."</p><p>Sherlock has had sex before, but of course his experiences have not prepared him for what he now has with John. There are some aspects of this relationship that are completely beyond his grasp. Utterly inscrutable. Impenetrable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impenetrable

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a commission for a lovely Tumblrite who wishes to remain anonymous. The prompt developed over time but was essentially a push for a strong, dominant John who calls the shots in bed and a slightly freaked out Sherlock who loves that John calls the shots, but is actually a little afraid of John's BAMFy-ness, in a good way. There are a few details that are only implied, but I hope that this satisfies the original prompt in tone if not in specifics.
> 
> Full disclosure, this fic took a loooong time to write, and saw many scrappings and revisions along the way, before I found something that hit (I hope) the spirit of the prompt and felt true at the same time. It was the super duper writers who came to the Fic Writers' Retreat whose advice and encouragement finally enabled me to get this written.
> 
> Many thanks to all those writers, especially [acquabelacqua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabelacqua/pseuds/aquabelacqua) who provided brilliant, thoughtful beta and took my frequent text queries in stride. Many thanks as well to the anonymous customer who was patient as she waited for the fic and unfailingly enthustiastic in our discussions.

It began unexpectedly, coming back into the flat after a case. John had been oddly silent in the cab, and Sherlock could tell there was… _something._ But he hadn’t given it much thought.

That is, not until…

“Enough,” John growled behind him, and grasped Sherlock by the back of the neck. _Like a wolf,_ Sherlock thought, inasmuch as he managed to think at all. _Exactly like a dominant wolf._

And exactly like a wolf being dominated (he assumed—he had deleted a lot about wolves), Sherlock had gone pliant under John’s hand, only turning to stare at him; at a loss, but making no attempt to free himself.

“John?” His voice was soft, uncertain. He told himself it did not tremble.

It had been a simple case, and shouldn’t have been dangerous, but a slight miscalculation on Sherlock’s part had brought them face to face with their suspect. The man was not particularly violent, but he _was_ furious, and his anger made him spit venom. When the man had targeted Sherlock with his seething spitefulness, John had loosened a few of his teeth for him.

Sherlock–who had actually been somewhat affected by the particular brand of poison the man had been spewing–had taken several seconds to compose himself. John, when he was righteous and incensed, was _magnificent._ Sherlock could admit that he was more than a little affected by that, too.

Now they were back at Baker Street, and something in the encounter had caused John to completely alter his usual demeanour, in a way that Sherlock found…well, frankly, alarming. But also intriguing. (And not a little arousing, but that was nothing new. Sherlock had given up denying the nature of his attraction to John some time ago.)

“Enough, I said.” John did not release his hold. “I fucking _saw_ you, Sherlock. When I belted that prick – you think I couldn’t see you? You can’t hide from me, Sherlock. Not anymore. I’m not going to let you.”

Sherlock made an effort to draw himself up. It was hindered by John’s implacable grip on his neck. He swallowed, with difficulty. “What are you going to do?”

 _“This,”_ John growled, and brought his face in close to Sherlock’s. It was completely unprecedented and unexpected and also wholly, wholly unmistakable. _And brilliant._

 _Oh god, oh god_. Sherlock could see the kiss coming and couldn’t even think anything as coherent as _he’s going to kiss me_ and he _wanted_ to think, he wanted to _see_ , he wanted his full awareness. John was going to kiss him and he wanted to _watch it happen_. Instead he could hardly even move.

(His mouth was open, though. Some part of him had already made a decision about this.)

John still had his face right up in Sherlock’s, his mouth hovering, his expression…well, _grimly determined_ , thought the part of Sherlock’s brain that never, ever shut off, not even _in extremis_ as he was. Determined and forceful. _Dangerous._

Sherlock held very still and wondered if this was going to hurt.

After a moment, though, he realised that John had stopped, his mouth hovering mere millimetres away from his own. He met his eyes uncertainly. “John?”

“Tell me you want this.” There was no doubt in John’s voice, there was hardly even a question. He spoke the words as if they were a command, and was waiting for it to be obeyed.

Pinned as he was by John’s fierce gaze and his heavy grasp, Sherlock did not falter. “I want this.” _(He did, oh, he did, whatever **this**_ _was, he’d wanted it for so long)_. “I want this.”

…and John’s mouth claimed his.

John was precise in his onslaught. There were no teasing touches with lip or tongue to start with, no feather-light pecks or sips; no, rather, he pressed right in, tilted Sherlock’s mouth open—Sherlock’s _unresisting_ mouth—with a hand on his jaw, and slid his tongue deep.

Once inside, he licked along Sherlock’s tongue, over and around, in firm, sure strokes. He delved into the deepest reaches of Sherlock’s mouth, running his tongue along teeth and lips and the insides of cheeks.

Sherlock met John’s invasion with eager acquiescence, opening far wider than was comfortable—or possibly even attractive— in his eagerness to admit him, to surrender his whole mouth to John, to whatever John might wish to do with it.

John unflinchingly pressed his advantage. There could be no question about who was in charge. Sherlock sank into the kiss with desire, and something very like relief.

John was taking exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it. Which was exactly what Sherlock wanted.

When John drew back again, Sherlock stumbled. John’s hands held him steady, though, moving to the sides of Sherlock’s head as he sucked at Sherlock’s lips—top, bottom, top, bottom, suck, suck, _bite._ At the pain of the sudden change in sensation, Sherlock’s knees buckled and he sagged against John’s body, all the breath leaving him in a ragged half-moan: “ _John.”_

A soothing tongue ran over his lip, caressing where the bite had been, easing the pain. John’s fingers threaded into his hair and tilted his head for another deep plunge of his tongue. Sherlock brought his body in close, seeking contact, more than the palms of John’s hands and the thrust of his mouth.

But no, John withdrew, gave him a few more gentle kisses, then pulled back completely, holding his head still for a moment longer, then releasing him.

“There.” He gave a nod. _Job done._

***

Afterwards, after the kissing, John sat them both on the sofa. He took one of Sherlock’s hands in both of his. His intention was clear; they were going to Talk.

Sherlock, insofar as he _expected_ anything, expected the usual hesitant speech from John, the usual stammering, the usual _I find this difficult_ , but whatever resolve John had discovered on his way home that night seemed not to have abandoned him yet, and he spoke openly.

“When I took hold of you before, I said _enough._ And I meant it. Do you know what I was talking about?”

Possibly. Probably. Almost certainly. He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Enough staring at each other, enough watching from afar. Speaking for myself, enough _wanting_ , wanting to touch you and feel you and _have_ you, and not daring to. I’ve been so afraid for so long, Sherlock. And I don’t look kindly on cowardice. So I had to ask.”

“You didn’t exactly _ask_.”

A kind of sternness crossed John’s face. “In fact, I did. I did _exactly_ ask. I did nothing more than touch your neck before I asked.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but it was true.

“Because I suddenly had the feeling you’ve been holding back, too. For a long time I thought it was just me. But I thought…maybe you wanted what I want.”

There was a little pause as Sherlock absorbed this. Then, “And what do you want?”

Again, John did not falter. “You.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Me.”

“Yes. You.” _Remarkable._ What else was John going to admit today, as if it were nothing?

John went on. “The physical side of you. Touching and kissing and whatever else you want. We’ve already—” And here John did hesitate a little. “That is, I think we’ve already got everything else. Haven’t we?”

Sherlock blinked twice, three times, but then found John’s comment did not require much processing. It was just true. _Obvious._ If it wasn’t exactly _we’ve got_ , it was certainly _John has_. Sherlock already belonged to him in every other sense. He didn’t know about John, but for himself… “I—yes. You’ve already got everything else.”

John smiled a little at that, with real warmth. (Had he doubted it?) He did not remark on Sherlock’s re-wording, though. Perhaps the change of pronoun was so obvious that it did not merit comment. John carried straight on. “There you are, then.”

Was it really this easy, after all this time? John saying _enough_ and _there you are, then?_

Apparently it was. Everything followed easily after that. If anything was missing from that first conversation, well, there would be plenty of time to figure it out.

This felt like everything he had been wanting for a long, long time.

***

They were _together_ now. John had kissed him. Had grabbed him and growled at him and _asked him_ and kissed him. They did that now. This was what John wanted now on top of the “everything else” that he said they already had.

(Sherlock still wasn’t sure how much was included in _everything else,_ but he wanted _everything._ )

Just like that first time, John still stopped and asked.

Well, _asked._ There was asking and there was asking. John asked Sherlock things all the time:

“Is there any food in? Anything at all?”

“What’s in the carton in the fridge? It’s dripping.”

“Are you going to sit there all day?”

_“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”_

John asked those questions in his usual voice and Sherlock felt free to ignore them at his leisure.

There was another kind of asking, though. Rougher. _Riskier._

Like the second time, crowding him up against the wall by the bathroom door. “ _Say yes.”_

Or leaning over him in his chair, caging him, his mouth wet, his lips parted. “ _Ask me to kiss you.”_

Or later, his palm hovering so close over the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers that Sherlock could feel the heat of it, but _stopped_. _“’Touch me, John.’_ Say it _.”_

John would stop, poised, his teeth barely touching Sherlock’s neck, his fingers not quite brushing Sherlock’s nipples, his hot, wet breath washing over Sherlock’s hard, aching cock, and _John would stop_. And Sherlock would have to gather himself to tell him that he wanted it.

And if he didn’t ask, John wouldn’t do it. Or so Sherlock assumed. When John commanded him in that way, when John _ordered_ him to give permission, Sherlock always, always did, even if he had to gasp it out between moans, between cries, between his own ragged breaths.

It was easier than holding back the words that he might otherwise say, the ones that John might not want to hear. And anyway, he _did_ want it. He always wanted it.

There was never anything he wanted more than precisely whatever John was doing to him. Whatever glorious, terrifying thing John wanted from him.

***

In the space of a few weeks, John’s advances had _advanced_ sufficiently for Sherlock to find himself completely naked on his bed, head propped up on pillows, his own semen drying on his belly, with John—also gloriously bare—on his knees and straddling his chest, his hard cock bobbing inches away from Sherlock’s gaping mouth, close enough to smell but not to touch.

A series of permissions had brought them to this point. John always stopped before their lips could meet for the first time. He had reached up and seized Sherlock by the sides of his head and brought their foreheads together, tilting his chin until their lips were almost brushing, and whispered, simply, _“Tell me.”_

Sherlock had breathed, _“Yes,”_ and his tongue was still hissing the sibilant when John’s tongue glided in beside it. They’d kissed and kissed, John’s arms reaching up under Sherlock’s shoulder blades and crushing their bodies together as lips slid and tongues darted and sparred.

John had taken Sherlock’s lower lip, clamped it tightly between both of his and sucked _hard,_ letting his hands slide down Sherlock’s back and run lightly over the curve of his backside. In the gentle flex of John’s fingers, barely scratching through his trousers, Sherlock could feel the grasping and gripping he wished for, but John’s touch had stayed light as he kissed along Sherlock’s jaw. Light, that is, until he’d nudged up under Sherlock’s ear and, with another flex of his hand, murmured, “ _You want this._ Tell me. _”_

Sherlock could barely prevent himself from arching his back and pressing his arse into John’s hands ( _most_ indecorously), but managed (mostly) to keep the whine out of his voice when he’d agreed, “Yes. _I want this.”_

The next moment, John had gathered both orbs of his generous buttocks into hands that ought to have been too small to hold them but _weren’t_ and was grinding Sherlock’s crotch against his hip and rumbling out his approval while Sherlock almost _whimpered_ under his hands.

The muscles stood out on John’s shoulders through his shirt as he reached around Sherlock’s body and kneaded Sherlock’s arse. John looked _bigger_ like this somehow, broader. He had to stretch up to reach Sherlock’s mouth, and their hips did not align when they tried to grind together, far from it, but John nevertheless managed to occupy all the space around Sherlock. That, and the aggressive swell of his lats and deltoids made Sherlock feel…not trapped, exactly, or not in a bad way. Enclosed, though.

Hedged. _Held_.

( _Safe.)_

Which was ridiculous, because John, like this, was terrible, was _dire_ , was anything but safe. _Nevertheless_.

Next came John’s fingertips hovering at the waist of Sherlock’s trousers at the small of his back, where his shirt was tucked in, plucking at the fabric, but not pulling. _Pluck, pluck, pluck._ “Tell me to untuck your shirt.”

 _The thought of those fingers on his bare skin._ “Untuck my shirt.”

John didn’t, only kept brushing, kept plucking. A little scratch through the fabric.

“Untuck my shirt.” He wanted that touch, suddenly and maddeningly. John was withholding it, and Sherlock wanted it. “ _Please,_ John, pull it out.” John didn’t. “I want it, please.”

All this begging, just for fingers on the bare skin of his back. _Worth it_ , when at last the deft hands circled and scrolled and scratched. Worth it, for certain, when those same fingers dipped below the waistband of his trousers.

This was how John always proceeded. Pushing and commanding, requesting permission for every escalation, as if Sherlock was the one in control. While at the same time making it clear that he was not.

When John’s fingertips had closed over Sherlock’s top button, Sherlock had to say _go ahead._ He’d had to say it again before John would close his mouth over a pebbled nipple. Sherlock tried, sometimes, to bypass this gatekeeper, would arch and press into John’s hands or mouth without having to utter the words, but John—although usually a step behind on cases—was always faster.

So that when John was poised above him with a flushed and leaky cock hovering within breathing distance of his eager mouth, Sherlock had already gasped out, _yes, please, do it, take it off, yes, touch me, push me down, yes, let me see it, make me come, I want it, I want it, I want it_ so many times that he’d stopped caring that his voice was getting increasingly breathless and desperate or that each new touch, once it had been withheld and then asked for (begged for) and finally bestowed, brought out of him an arching need and a keening whine he could not have disguised even if he had wished to.

It was therefore a simple matter for him to rasp out a ragged, “Yes, please, I want it, put your prick in my mouth, John, _please, please, please,”_ and to carry on saying _please_ until John had stoppered up his plosive with his fat cock, and he felt no shame or embarrassment at all when his words shifted to needy little sounds at the first touch of John’s erection on his tongue, and then to a high-pitched rhythmic whimpering that went on and on.

John’s thrusts were firm, but never too deep for Sherlock to handle, and when they sped up and their rhythm hitched, Sherlock wondered if he’d get away with—

But no. John yanked himself out of Sherlock’s mouth mid-thrust, and his weight on Sherlock’s chest prevented the gasping detective from chasing him and hungrily recapturing his prize.

“Where do you want me to come, Sherlock?” John’s voice was gritty, his teeth clenched and his gaze merciless, boring into Sherlock’s eyes where he lay between John’s knees.

What would happen if he didn’t ask? _Try._ Sherlock always took stupid risks. This was no exception.

A questing mouth, a desperate moan—Sherlock knew they wouldn’t be enough but he tried anyway, letting his lower lip gape prettily, soft and wet. John saw, and his eyes darkened, but he was not taken in. “Where, Sherlock?”

Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes on John’s, but they drifted downward of their own accord and fixed themselves on that growing little drop of fluid. He restrained himself from actually licking his lips, but it was a near thing.

John saw _everything._ “Where.” He swirled a thumb through the slick drop and brought it up to his own mouth and _sucked it off._

Sherlock groaned and gave up. “In my mouth.” His voice was desperate, wanton. “ _John_. Please. I want you to come in my mouth.”

Only then did John push his slick cock back between Sherlock’s lips and thrust and thrust—hard, too, no more holding back, hard and rough—into the back of Sherlock’s throat until he came with a rasping growl.

***

There had never been anyone else in his life like this. There’d been sex, of course; it hadn’t been terrible, good enough to make it worth taking advantage of some of the opportunities afforded by good hair, a deep voice, and a piercing gaze, but nothing like this.

The heady combination of comfort and desperation, the way John gave him exactly what he desired, the way he made him ask for it, beg for it. The way John made him say exactly what he wanted, and made it safe. (For a given value of _safe._ )

Sherlock loved having sex with John. He loved being manhandled by John. He loved being ordered around by John. He loved _John._ (But then, he always had.)

It never did to get complacent, though, when dealing with John Watson. He was always a little unpredictable. Unexpected. A little...risky.

***

They were kissing in bed. John had requested that Sherlock ask, and Sherlock had, and they were kissing, a delicious slide of mouths and a warm press of bodies. It wasn’t frantic, it wasn’t fraught, it was just _lovely_ and _comfortable_ and a hundred other cosy adjectives that Sherlock would have vehemently denied ever thinking of at all.

John had—with permission—opened up Sherlock’s shirt and had stroked lazy circles through the fuzz around his navel. He’d kissed along the trail his fingers had traced, lipping through the hair, using the slight prehensility of his upper lip to nuzzle the soft skin, making Sherlock squirm and giggle. Bit by bit, he’d kissed up Sherlock’s abdomen and followed the ridge of the bottom of his ribcage to his sternum, up, and outwards again.

They’d progressed in this way from squirming and giggling, to panting and moaning, to trembling and gasping, to sweating and _wanting._

Now Sherlock was on his back, with John nestled between his thighs, his cock larynx-deep in John’s surprisingly accommodating throat, moaning around the fingers that John had hooked into his mouth. He was awash in the pleasure afforded by John’s lips and tongue, coupled with the exquisite tactility of having his own lips wrapped around John’s fingers. He licked and sucked and drooled around them, between panting breaths and visceral moans, utterly uncoordinated and splendidly _messy_ and delighting in not knowing what John was going to make him ask for next.

By this time, they’d been… _this_ , this new thing, together, for weeks, and Sherlock was almost used to the variety of touches that John would make him ask for. Hands and mouth, cock and bollocks and nipples, and a thousand other places on each of their scarred bodies, places where somehow the skin could still take pleasure from a tender touch despite years of rough use and neglect.

(Tenderness. It was one of the words Sherlock was wary of, in his own thoughts. Too close to the things he wasn’t sure they had and didn’t dare to ask for—much too risky.)

It wasn’t _new_ anymore, not really. Sherlock was anticipating pleasure, certainly, but little in the way of _surprise_ , when John removed his sodden fingers from Sherlock’s mouth, brought them down behind his balls, and began to circle the furl of his anus.

Sherlock froze.

They had not talked about this. They never talked about any of this, really. Sherlock had never asked John why he needed such explicit permissions, and John had never asked Sherlock if there was anything he particularly wanted, or wanted to avoid, and especially they both avoided any mention of previous experience or (god forbid) relationships, because that way lay madness.

They hadn’t discussed this. But in the stuttering, strobing landscape of his mind, Sherlock supposed it ought not to come as a surprise to find John’s fingers circling his arsehole, since surely two men having sex might be almost _expected_ to venture into this territory. No, this was completely foreseeable and anyone could have predicted it.

Sherlock found it profoundly shocking.

There was no way John hadn’t felt Sherlock’s body tense. There was no way, if he looked at his face, that John could avoid seeing Sherlock’s distress. He would look, and he would see, and he would stop.

(And Sherlock would shrink a little when he did, was already shriveling at the thought. It hurt, that John would stop, and the ache that he felt was not between his legs.)

John’s spit-soaked fingers continued to hover where they were, slipping over the tight curl of flesh, circling, pressing. His mouth steadied around Sherlock’s erection, sliding back in long, slow pulls, and then sinking deep again. John did look, and he certainly saw, but he did not stop. His eyes, sharp and intent, did not leave Sherlock’s face.

What would he see? What would Sherlock expose? If his body were laid open, by John, _before_ John, there was nothing, _nothing,_ that Sherlock would be able to keep hidden.

Terrible. Dire. _Dangerous._ Being on his knees with his mouth stretched around Sherlock’s cock did nothing to diminish his...power. This is what happened when you thought you were safe with John Watson.

Without breaking his gaze, he pulled off Sherlock’s prick in one long slide. “Tell me you want it,” he said.

 _Oh._ Sherlock was caught.

John wouldn’t do it if he didn’t ask. But perhaps he wouldn’t _not_ do it if he didn’t say no?

 _That makes absolutely no sense._ Even Sherlock had to play back his own thought to get the negatives straight.

It wouldn’t work, though. Not with John. His relentless demands for permission were surely something connected to the importance of consent; Sherlock had been able to figure that much out on his own. He required an explicit _yes_ to continue, but would certainly not require an explicit _no_ to stop. That was the opposite of what John wanted, not the corollary.

John would not simply _take_ this, no matter how much Sherlock wanted him to.

(Did he? Why did he? Why not just say yes, then? _Why not just say no?_ Why indeed?)

John’s fingers were still lingering, with little fluttering touches. It felt…well, it felt really, really good, and really, really terrifying, and it was altogether _too much_ —on its own, and in where it could go, and in what, if anything, it might mean—and Sherlock never wanted it to stop.

He didn’t want to say no. He was also _absolutely unable_ to ask for it.

John pulled back a little further, but still did not look away. “Go on, Sherlock, ask for this.”

Sherlock’s breath sped up, and he felt his eyes go wide. He had no power whatsoever to school his expression.

John looked straight into his panicked eyes and let one finger come to rest precisely in the centre of the opening.

 _This is it, he’s going to do it._ Sherlock wasn’t asking, but John was going to do it anyway. Sherlock steeled himself for the breach, for the pressure, for the pain. For the exposure. He had wanted this, had wanted John to _take_. He would not back down.

But he could feel the corners of his mouth twisting, and refused to consider what his eyes might be betraying.

He lifted his chin. He wouldn’t ask, but he wouldn’t say no.

John stared at him for another long moment, and then took his hand away. (Sherlock barely avoided sagging, but whether with disappointment or relief he did not know.)

John made no further comment, but looked thoughtful as he finished him off with his mouth.

 _(A preoccupied blow job._ Sherlock had not known that was possible.)

***

This kind of conflict was unacceptable. He needed to be able to follow where John led, or to say, rationally, when he did not wish to. John responded well to facts, to tangibles, to the _clear_ and _present_.

John had said _enough_ and had taken what he wanted, and since it was what Sherlock wanted too, it was easy. What John wanted was the physical side of Sherlock, on top of whatever they already had. On top of being flatmates? Colleagues? Best friends? That bit had remained unarticulated.

Apparently, John felt that they already had was straightforward and unambiguous. Easy. Comfortable.

That’s what John liked. That’s what he wanted. He didn’t want that to change. What would happen now if Sherlock suddenly became...puzzling? Troubling?

He could not chance it. Too risky. Best to just get on with it. Hordes of cretins with tinted eyebrows and designer underwear managed it regularly, with people they barely knew. He could do it with John. It wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t _dangerous._

But if he opened himself up to John, what else might be exposed?

 _Everything_ else.

Ah. _That_ was where the danger lay. This could become very troubling, _very_ quickly, if John caught a glimpse of just how much _everything else_ entailed, for Sherlock.

Either option—screw up his courage and do it, or continue to refuse with no explanation—made things problematic, which likely spelled the end of their new-found intimacy. Perhaps their friendship as well.

 _Nonsense._ It was one sex act. Very specific. No more absurd than anything else humans did in pursuit of sexual pleasure. It was preposterous that it should be imbued with this much power.

(Nevertheless, there was already a picture in his mind, fully formed, glittering with clarity: _Sherlock, naked, on his hands and knees, John’s hands on his hips, the long slow slide of his cock all the way in, then almost all the way out. John’s hands, angled at the knuckles. John’s grip on his hips. Golden skin on white._ It was so real. Also completely unfathomable, that it should be so clear and so compelling.)

What Sherlock needed was data. Needed it badly enough that he submitted himself to a very questionable set of Internet searches in order to decide just where he stood on this, so that the next time he would not be found wanting.

***

“What on earth are you looking at?”

How was it possible that he hadn’t heard John come in? He barely avoided guiltily slamming his laptop shut, which would have been a giveaway even to John. His hands did twitch on the keyboard, though.

“Hello, John.” Stalling.

“‘How to Get Fucked’—sounds like quality reading, Sherlock.”

“John—”

“No, this is really good. What else have you got here? John leaned in and tapped the mouse pad. ‘How to be a Better Bottom.’ I don’t know, Sherlock. Your bottom is already pretty terrific, if you ask me.”

“John, I—”

“Oh, there’s one more tab here. ‘Five Tips to Losing Your Anal Virginity’? Would have thought one ‘tip’ would do…”

Heat flared in his cheeks. “I’d prefer it if you could shut up now.”

John was smiling; his mocking tone had no bite to it. He looked from the screen to Sherlock’s blazing face and spoke casually. “So this _is_ something you want to do. In spite of how it appeared the other night.”

Sherlock was silent. They hadn’t discussed that night at all. That had suited him perfectly.

“Do you?” John persisted.

 _Did he?_ He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the other night. _A long, slow slide, the grip of rough, golden hands._ He’d become increasingly intrigued.

It was frightening. He’d read enough by now to know that it needn’t be painful, for all that John’s penis was...above average. It was not the pain that worried him.

The idea of physically, _literally_ , opening himself up for John was appealing; indeed, there was nothing he would want more. The more he thought about it, the more appealing it became. Sherlock was not shy about his body. He wasn’t afraid of being seen.

He was afraid of being _exposed._

He’d already begun to see that when his body was intimate with John’s, his feelings became much more difficult to conceal. That was the kind of exposure he feared, when he was so unsure of John’s response, when there was every chance John would not want to see all that Sherlock wanted to show him… No, it was much too dangerous.

Openness. When there were so many things he was trying to keep closed.

(“We’ve already got everything else,” John had said. Was emotional intimacy part of that, for John? Wasn’t it? Was it?)

There was a pause. Sherlock still didn’t answer. John said, “Why is all of this about being penetrated? Is that what you want?”

Sherlock didn’t manage to hide his jolt of reaction this time. “I assumed it would be what you wanted.”

“Me? Why?” Startled. Frowning.

Sherlock could not even begin to explain why. It was an assumption he had not questioned, not even for a moment. “Because. Because you. Because we…”

“Oh.” John was capable, very occasionally, of incredible flashes of insight, as well as a certain amount of mind reading. His face grew serious. “Listen, Sherlock, we are what we are. That’s not going to change. There’s a lot of talk about the ramifications of taking particular positions during penetrative sex, but it’s all meaningless.”

“Is it?” Sherlock kept his words carefully neutral. Meaningless?

John was not given to speeches or lectures. His eyebrows worked as he chose his words. “Look, you can take any position you want, but if I penetrate you, that doesn’t mean I’m—I’m dominating you, or that you’re less, what, capable. Responsible. Or that I’m somehow more…shit, I don’t know. More masculine?” He searched Sherlock’s face while Sherlock steadily gave nothing away. John gave up, and kept talking: “Come on, Sherlock, you of all people know those stereotypes are bullshit. I like to tell you what to do, so obviously I’d never let you do that to me? I don’t know what your hesitation is about having my cock up your arse, but I like that kind of sex, and I want to have it with you. One way or another. And not have it mean any of that.”

John meant to be reassuring here, but by saying it didn’t mean any of that, he left open the possibility that it didn’t mean anything at all.

***

John wanted it. He said so. John would _expect_ it. Not just kissing, and not just orgasms. Sex.

 _Be specific._ Anal penetration. John would certainly want that. Eventually. He said it didn’t matter who fucked whom—only he didn’t say _fuck_ , he said _penetrate_ , was that the doctor in him?—because it didn’t mean anything either way.

It didn’t mean anything. That couldn’t be clearer.

 _That’s not what he meant._ Sherlock stifled that thought as soon as he identified it. _Maudlin. That’s not what he meant._ It wasn’t. John wasn’t saying that what they were doing was meaningless. He only meant the relative positions. Not the whole endeavour.

Of course not.

Also, _getting fucked_ did not mean what it meant when men said it out of context. Or even in context. Being the bottom did not mean inferior in anyway. Those notions were based in misogyny and homophobia and were limiting and insulting all around.

It did not mean getting dominated or controlled or being less of, of an agent. Needing coddling. Needing _care._ _(Strong, gentle hands, gold on white.)_

It didn’t mean any of that.

John was willing to be the one who was penetrated. He said he didn’t care either way. The easiest solution to Sherlock’s worries was for him to ‘top’. Nothing simpler.

 _John’s hands, though. Gripping. Golden skin on white._ The vision refused to recede. Strong, golden hands, _taking care._

It didn’t mean any of those things, John had said.

_Couldn’t it, though?_

Oh, there it was. That was it, that was it precisely: In the privacy of his own mind, Sherlock quaked and quivered and _yearned_ to be, to be _filled,_ and yes, to be _taken_. Had. _Cared for._

Yearned for it.

Yearned, in fact, for all the things John said it didn’t mean.

Which was obviously the wrong thing to yearn for. He had no idea what the solution was.

***

But _this_ was definitely not it.

This, where he was hovering over John on the bed, having worked him open with fingers and tongue—carefully, so carefully, so anxious to do this _right_ —his cock buried deep in John’s delectable arse and the responsibility for _not messing up_ squarely on his own shoulders.

Definitely not this.

Not that it was bad, not that it wasn’t, on some levels, _bloody marvellous_ , really, to see his own penis disappearing into John’s body, to be _inside John_. It was…

“A _mazing._ Fuck, Sherlock. _You’re inside me.”_

John’s beautiful body. John’s dear, beautiful body. He smiled, in spite of his tension. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”

John grinned back over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

Then John rolled his hips, and there was no more grinning. _Oh, god._

Sherlock went to such lengths preparing him, working him open with his fingers for ages, alternating gentle stretching with slow, deep thrusts, using only one finger for the longest time, only adding the next when John was squirming around him, groaning for _more._ Demanding it.

Sherlock gave him more, only a little, moving so slowly, clamping down hard on his own impatience (as well as his own trepidation). He wanted to do this right.

He wanted John to be proud of him. He wanted John to like it.

It was wonderful. It was. It was intense and hot and gorgeous and _wonderful._ But it was also—Sherlock could admit in the confines of his own mind—harrowing. To be responsible for John in this way, to be responsible for his pleasure, for his well-being.

There was always the danger that he would fail, somehow, or worse, that he would _show his hand._ That John, with his knees spread wide, his arse in the air and his anus loose, was not the one who would be exposed here.

 _Everything else._ If John knew how much Sherlock meant by that, the game would be up. But how could he be here, with his arm around John’s waist and his prick inside him, how could he plant little kisses down John’s back, and love him and love him and _love_ him, and not say the treacherous little words that always threatened to spill out of his mouth at any time, willy nilly, even at the breakfast table?

This was not the solution, this was _not_ the way to give John what he wanted but still stay hidden.

This was more terrifying than he could possibly have imagined.

At least John’s pleasure seemed to be…well in hand. John was showing every sign of prodigious well-being. Head thrown back, voice deep and ragged, John pressed his body back at an incredible angle—admirable for a man of his age—and rocked his hips enthusiastically in time with Sherlock’s thrusts.

When Sherlock shifted his angle, John’s exclamations and gained force and lost coherence. He arched and thrust, moaned and writhed, and filled the air with wave after wave of blasphemy and profanity, which Sherlock knew by now was a Very Good Sign.

Then the timbre of his cries changed, deepened, roughened. Sherlock wrapped a hand around John’s erection and stroked, firmly, savouring the heft and slide of it in his hand, watching John’s body carefully for any sign of _too much, too hard, oh god, more, not enough_ , but John’s head dropped low and his shoulders bowed and he came, hard, over Sherlock’s hand, the sheets, and his own downy belly.

 _Beautiful,_ thought Sherlock. And also, _Thank god._

His own orgasm, thundering through him a moment later, went almost unregarded.

***

Afterwards, they sat in the kitchen. John made tea.

“I, ah, don’t think you enjoyed that very much.” He said it as he plugged the kettle in. His back was turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffened in his seat. _Oh god. How did he know?_ “What did I do wrong?” _Shit._ Hopefully his flat expression would come across as insouciance rather than dread.

“Absolutely nothing,” John said feelingly, turning around. “It was bloody brilliant.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Stiff. Indifference was better than panic. He avoided John’s eye.

John hesitated. “You just seemed…strained.”

A withering glance. “I was having an orgasm, John.”

“Before that.” John coughed. “And after. And, to be honest, now.” A mug of tea clunked down on the table in front of him

He drew the mug towards himself. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, fuck,” John deadpanned. “I didn’t know it was _that_ bad.”

Sherlock smiled a little at that. They did tend to misuse the word _fine._ But, “It wasn’t bad at all. It was…good. I was just—”

“Nervous?”

“No.” _John isn’t stupid._ “All right, yes. I wanted you to like it.”

“I did. God, I did.” John pulled out his chair and sat down opposite Sherlock. “But I was always going to.”

How could he be sure of that? There were a thousand ways Sherlock could have ruined it completely so that John would never want this again. This was not the time to point that out.

After a moment, John spoke again. “It’s just…” A pause. “Maybe you’d feel better if you bottomed.”

Sherlock felt himself go still. For a long moment he couldn’t speak.

“Sherlock?”

If he let out the breath he was holding, John would know he’d been holding it. But he had to breathe. He released the air as silently as possible. It took too long.

Far too much time went by before he said, “What?”

John watched him steadily. “Bottoming. It might be easier for you.”

Incomprehensible. “How could it possibly be _easier?”_

“Well, the sensations are more…immediate. You know right away what feels good. Less guesswork. In some positions you can completely control the movement—”

“No.” Suddenly refusing was the only option.

“—and it feels good. Having someone inside you, someone you—”

“No.”

“I’m only asking because you seemed—and I want it to be good for you—”

“I said no.”

Something in his tone made John finally take notice. He gave him a long look. Finally he said, “It’s up to you, of course. But you remember what I said, right?”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, John.”

“I mean it’s not about power or—or role play. Okay? It doesn’t mean any of that. It’s just bodies. And what feels good.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I remember.” John could not have been more wrong, though. He was sure of that, now that he’d topped. John had offered him up the most sensitive, intimate, vulnerable part of himself, and it had been his job to _take care of it._

If _Sherlock_ were to make that offer, it would absolutely not be _just bodies_.

Not for him.

He couldn’t do that when it might not mean anything, no matter how desperately he wanted the, the…the _care._

There was nothing for it but to use that word. It was logical, if pitiful. If John took care with him, took care _of_ him, it would be almost as if John cared _for_ him, and that was what he desperately, desperately wanted.

But only almost. He bit off that thought before it could fill his chest with cold.

Sherlock would deal with his own issues. John mustn’t know. Sherlock couldn’t make this _problematic,_ or it would not continue.

They would go back to _everything else,_ which wouldn’t be so bad, on the surface. For a while. There’d be cases. Companionable Sunday mornings. Inappropriate humour. Unspoken loyalty. (Unspoken _everything._ )

It would be fine, _actually_ fine, more than fine, but… _finite._ Eventually he would have to wave John off on dates with women who were better at this sort of thing than Sherlock was, even if they could not offer him all of the _everything else_.

And Sherlock would stay home alone, with everything that led to. Better an eternity of diligent, arduous topping, and have John stay. He allowed himself a moment’s regret for the vision of craggy hands dark on white skin, for a slow slide, almost like care. Then discarded it. “It’s still no.”

John nodded once and lowered his eyes to his steaming mug. _Troubled._

 _No, no._ This needed to be salvaged. _Say something. Something nice._ “But really, I’m…topping was okay. Surprisingly okay.” _More, give him more._ “And you were…” _What?_ Not _good_ —surely his vocabulary could stretch a little further. Not _beautiful_ , although he was. Too telling. But, “Extraordinary.” _Yes._

John looked up, at that. Pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You were quite extraordinary yourself.” John smiled. Sherlock smiled back. It was all a little foolish, but it made John drop the subject.

***

_It’s just bodies. It doesn’t mean anything._

_It’s just bodies._

***

This time the case—wasn’t there always a case?—was unusually disturbing, even for Sherlock. Even at the crime scene after the fact, there was so much evidence of the killer’s chilling _glee_ in what he was doing that even Lestrade’s team could feel it. It made everyone uneasy.

John did not come off of high alert the entire time, which turned out to be just as well.

Once Sherlock got to work, it became all about the puzzle, the way it always did.

Sherlock’s mind narrowed, sharpened. The cosmetics shop, then the printing and graphics company—“ _Oh! Ink!”_ —then the shipping yards. Other concerns faded into the background and he settled into the case with more relish even than usual.

Sherlock stopped thinking about the danger very early on. He had other things to focus on, and anyway, John was there.

It was therefore perhaps not surprising when he made his mistake.

It was just after the first shots rang out, after John had barrelled into Sherlock from behind and threw him behind some bins.

Once they were under cover, though, the shooting stopped, and anyway _John was there_ , with his gun, in charge, so it was perfectly safe to duck out from behind the bins and chase after the suspect as he rounded the corner of the alleyway.

 _“Sherlock!”_ The fury in John’s voice followed him as he skidded across the pavement, but he would deal with that later. He could hear the sounds of running footsteps receding. Running men can’t shoot straight, the gunman was occupied, so Sherlock tore down the street and around the corner—

—and into a blind alley, a trapped murderer just turning to face him.

And his accomplice stepping out behind Sherlock to block the exit.

An accomplice. _There’s always something._ John was going to be livid. At the moment, that was his main concern.

Sherlock took a breath, expecting to engage the murderer—whose flair for the dramatic could only be an advantage to Sherlock—verbally. Instead he found himself immobilized from behind with an arm around his neck and a press of cold metal at his temple.

The accomplice. Clearly he was of a more direct nature. There would be no grandstanding from him.

“You don’t need this one for anything, do you?” His voice was flat, impassive. Cold, a seasoned killer. No interest in drama, only in cool efficiency. No, Sherlock realized, with something like dread, this one would not stop to talk.

Sherlock tried anyway. “Don’t be ridic—” But the arm tightened on his throat and the gun pressed harder against his head.

“Shut up,” the murderer told him, completely unnecessarily. “No, it’s better all around if you shoot him.”

Sherlock would later swear that he heard the sound of the accomplice’s finger shifting on the trigger before the gun went flying out of his hands and they fell together, with Sherlock underneath getting the wind knocked out of him.

The man was abruptly lifted off him by a very angry John Watson, who gripped the man by both lapels and headed him in the face.

The man—coldly efficient, even under attack—fought back, which gave John all the excuse he needed to slam his head against the brick wall. This time, the accomplice dropped like a stone.

“Jesus,” the murderer sneered from behind them. He’d picked up his partner’s gun and had it levelled at John, less than a meter behind him. “You don’t like it when people touch your toys, do you?”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” John hadn’t even turned around yet.

Sherlock, still breathless, could not move, could only watch, eyes wide. _Don’t get angry, John. God, be careful._

The man _taunted_ John, the gun held steady. “You and your little pet here. You’ll probably get _really_ pissy when you see what I’m going to do to him.”

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off of John for an instant, but John moved faster than his eye could follow. The next instant, the gun was on the ground once again and the murderer was up against the wall with John’s forearm pressed against his throat.

“Sherlock, get the gun and call Lestrade.” John’s voice was cold, calm. Sherlock forced himself to move, pocketing the gun, removing his gloves and flicking off a text. He could already hear the sirens approaching.

The murderer—a talker, as Sherlock had surmised, and less intelligent than he had thought—spoke. “Pity. I had the right knife all picked out, just perfect for that flawless skin…” Taunting. “I’d have let you watch, too. He’s _your_ fucktoy.”

Something deadly settled over John’s shoulders like a mantle. “You are one sick motherfucker.” His voice was more dangerous than Sherlock had ever heard it, but his words were exquisitely enunciated. Sherlock saw a flicker of fear in the suspect’s eyes as he stared down the barrel of John’s cold fury.

John, for his part, was calm. He leaned in close. “Let’s get one thing really fucking clear. He’s not my bloody fucktoy, _he’s the love of my fucking life._ You do not even get to breathe his air.”

And with a jerk of his head, he broke the man’s nose.

***

It was definitely broken. There was a crunch, and a spurt of blood. Sherlock saw it all as if from a great distance.

John, of course, showed no reaction at all, and the next moment released the man into the hands of the NSY officers who began to fill the alleyway. There would be questions to answer eventually, but no one—after a look at John—seemed inclined to ask them now.

It took John several moments—turning to Sherlock, grasping his arms, running his hands down the sides of his body— to register the wide eyes, the fixed stare, the heaving breath. The lack of a response when he peered up at him.

“Sherlock? Jesus, Sherlock, what is it, are you all right? Are you hurt? Christ, Sherlock, say something.”

Dimly Sherlock became aware of John’s worry and searched for his voice. “John,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “John.”

“Yeah. Are you okay? Did he—?”

“I’m. I’m okay.” There was something important to say. Something elusive. “I’m—John. Take me home.”

“They probably need to take a statement of some kind, I should—”

“John.” And now Sherlock did focus his eyes on the smaller man, and once he did, he could not look away. John. Small, fierce, indomitable, magnificent. _Dangerous._

_He loves me._

John _loved_ him. He might never look away. “John?”

John looked into his face and his expression stilled. They stared at each other for a long moment before he cleared his throat and said, “Go on, ask.”

Sherlock swallowed. Another beat passed. Then: “Take me home.”

***

Cab, pavement, keys, door. Stairs, oh god, so many blasted stairs. Too slow, too slow, _too slow._

“Come on, John, come—god. John. Please. Please. I want—inside me. I’m ready, I want it. Now. John.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, yes, Christ, I will, yes. Fuck. Get your clothes off.”

Sitting room, finally. Coat, jacket, cuffs, buttons, shoes, trousers, Christ, there were a lot of clothes. “Off, off, off. Get them off. Fuck, John, hurry up. Get yours off too.”

“I’m going as fast—hang on, hold still. Fuck.”

Feet tripping, stumbling, legs bumping, tangling. Shoulders careening off walls, murmured curses, rough commands. Harsh breaths barely pausing as the bedroom door slammed shut— _not there yet._ Fumbling, eager hands and panting, ravenous mouths. The fall of bodies, naked at last, onto the bed, the grasping of fingers. _Now, today, more._ Never enough.

With a visible effort, John drew back. “This is—this is what you want? Now? Yes?”

“ _Yes,_ god, yes, now. Hurry.” Press of chests, tilt of hips. _Yes._

“But you, but you,” despite an answering grind of the pelvis, John trying to get the words out. “But you said.”

“ _I changed my mind._ ” He spread his long legs wide, and grasped John’s arse in his two hands, dragging him forward, so that his hard cock lay right inside the crease of Sherlock’s groin. His balls rested against Sherlock’s perineum, tickling. “I want it. I’m sure. I want it. ” _What was John waiting for?_ For him to ask? He had asked. _Ask again._ “ _Now,_ John. I want it now.”

“Yes, okay. I heard you. Just. Just.”

“John. _John._ Please. Give me this.”

“ _You need to wait._ ” Ah, here was John again, the John he knew in bed. “You can beg all you want but I’m driving here. We need—”

Ah, yes. “It’s in—”

“I know where it is.”

The slide of a drawer, the _click_ of a cap, an absurd, viscous noise—then the glide of slick fingers, from the top of his cleft to the tip of his cock, passing over his tight opening without pausing. Warm wetness encircled his prick at the squeeze of John’s fingers, and his head fell back on the bed at the slow rise and fall of John’s fist.

“John.” A high, keening whine. _He’d already asked for it._

John’s eyes drilled into his. His face was unyielding, and his voice was harsh. “You want it hard, yes? You saw something you liked in that alleyway and now you want it fast and rough and hard. That’s right, isn’t it? Tell me.”

The strong, rough knuckles, circling lightly—light, so gentle, but so strong. They carried with them the maddening slide on the sensitive skin, but also fierce jabs, gritty bricks, broken glass. Broken bones.

“ _Yes, whatever you want, yes._ ” It came out as a wail and Sherlock did nothing to stop it. Sherlock would _beg_ for it, no matter how hard, no matter how frightening.

 _He’s the love of my fucking life._ Brutal and tender, all in the slow circling of knuckles on delicate, hidden skin.

“Oh, I want it, all right.” John’s low voice ground on as his fingers worked. “I want it, if you’re going to ask for it like that. You want it hard? _Christ._ You want to feel it? I’ll make you feel it. When I’ve, when I’ve _had_ you.” John, who swore all the time, did not say _fucked_. “Oh, god, you’re going to feel it. You’re going to _know_ that I’m the one who’s had you.”

John’s hands were everywhere. There was no way for Sherlock to follow the slick movements as one of John’s hands worked his straining cock and the other—how many fingers did he _have_?—slipped and slid over and around his hole. There was pressure, a stretch, and there was a finger inside him, but it twisted and curved and stretched and was there still only one? He could not focus on that sensation when there was a hand pumping his prick and the slick glide of a thumb over his slit, _oh, god._

All the while, John kept up a steady stream of endearments and praise and profanity, uttered low and rough. _That voice_ , the same deep voice. Grit and bullets and steel traps and wool. Those _words._

Suddenly Sherlock didn’t care if there were only one finger inside him or a whole fist, he _needed_ that sensation, he needed John, _this_ John, strong and controlling and a little frightening, to fill him full; he wanted John deep inside him, all the way up into his belly, and he’d howl through the pain if that’s what it took.

He spread his legs impossibly further and bore down hard. “ _Now, John._ _Please.”_ Another grind of his hips. “No more fingers. I want your cock.” And then, as John’s eyes went dark and intent, he raised his head. Spoke distinctly. “John. Now. _Fuck me_.” The words were rough and hard, the way he’d asked John to take him. Perhaps that would get him what he wanted. “Fuck me, John. As hard as you like.”

At this, though, John stilled, the hand around Sherlock’s cock just gripping steadily, the fingers up his arse no longer twisting and thrusting, just barely stroking, as John regarded him steadily. His eyes were still dark, but narrowed.

There came a...wariness alongside his arousal. A dawning suspicion.

“Sherlock.” No interrogative.

“John?” John _wanted_ this. He’d said so, he had. His eyes were dark and his chest was high and he _wanted_ this. Why was he stopping?

The narrowed eyes. _Wary._ He spoke slowly. “I need to be clear. You were terrified of this, Sherlock—no, you were. And now...you changed your mind, you said. Which you’ve never done before. And frankly, that’s bloody fantastic. If I’d known what it would do to you, I would have slammed some arsehole’s head on a wall a long time ago.” The questioning in his eyes belied the tough talk.

The scene filled Sherlock’s eyes as he gazed unseeing at John’s watchful face. There it was, the vicious wrench of clothes and the wet smack of bodies on bricks. The ugly taunts, the spurting blood, John’s rage _,_ and the improbable, incredible words, falling one by one into his ears, into his brain.

_He’s the love of my fucking life._

His mouth opened and his eyes filled and he was powerless to suppress what was shining out of his face.

John saw _everything._ He held Sherlock’s eyes for a long, long moment, his fingers still working, but slowly. “Tell me what changed.” It was not a request. Hand on his cock, eyes on his face. It was _not_ a request.

The look on his face was already Sherlock laid bare; he could feel it in his slackening jaw and his wide eyes. But John was asking, and Sherlock was beyond refusing, even this. _Laid bare._

The words tumbled out of his mouth. “It wasn’t that. Not—the violence. Though that was—no, it was…the words. What you said.”

“That you’re the—that I love you.” His hand shifted. His eyes did not leave Sherlock’s face.

At the stronger slide of fingers, Sherlock gasped. He managed a nod.

“You didn’t know.” John blinked once, frowning. His hands moved again, but still so slowly. He was working it out. “You didn’t know?”

Sherlock winced and drew his lower lip in under his teeth. Closed his eyes, briefly. The shake of his head could hardly have been perceptible, but John saw. Ignoring the collapse of John’s expression into something pained and devastated, Sherlock pressed on. “Please, John,” he said. “Please keep going.”

But John said, “I—I can’t.” He let go of Sherlock’s cock and instead smoothed his hand over the taut white belly. He withdrew his fingers. They hurt much more coming out than they had going in. “I can’t.”

“Oh.” Something cold and desolate pooled in his gut. “Oh.”

“Oh, no, no, sweetheart, I didn’t mean—I’ll still do it, I still want it. God. More than ever.” His voice was like gravel and his eyes were soft. “But. The reason you were scared before—you were, you said no because you were scared to let me—because you didn’t know how I felt. You wouldn’t have been scared if you’d known.” John searched his face. “I’m not wrong.”

Sherlock couldn’t deny it. “No.”

“I should have told you. I thought you knew. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“It’s all right, John. I know now. _Please.”_

“You were _scared._ It’s not all right. But I’m going to make it right.” John punctuated his words with slow, sensual kisses, and the smallest circling of the pad of his finger around Sherlock’s stretched opening.“And that means I’m not going to do it fast, and I’m not going to do it hard.” He spoke low, with quiet vehemence. “I’m not going to _fuck you_ , Sherlock.” A breath. “I’m going to take care of you.” John gazed down at him for three heartbeats, four. “And you can laugh at that if you want.”

Sherlock wasn’t laughing. Sherlock was barely breathing. _Care._ John was going to _take care of him._ The very words he’d thought. The very thing he wanted.

He blinked twice, and would have kept blinking, except that just then John twisted his scissoring fingers and _pressed_ , and _oh,_ sparks, and crackles, and, “ _John.”_ His eyes rolled shut.

After that, it was…

It was _everything._ It was the slow slip of fingers, starting back at one, stroking, stretching, circling, while a gentle fist (and that was John, all the time, a gentle fist) sliding and squeezing. It was the soft press of lips—John had to lean way over to reach, balanced on one elbow, because his hands were full, but he did, he did, he pressed his open mouth on Sherlock’s skin and exhaled hot breath and tender words, words like _sweetheart_ and _beautiful_ and _love_ and _love_ and _love._

Sherlock was already open, already stretched and wide and _ready_ , but John took his time all over again, kissing, stroking, pressing skin onto skin. His hands were no longer pumping or thrusting, but cradling and caressing, and where Sherlock’s desire had been a torrent before, to overwhelm him and drag him under, it now lapped at him in tiny, gentle waves that rose within him almost unnoticed, buoying him up and bearing him away as on a calm, warm sea.

When John finally drew his fingers away from Sherlock’s ready opening and stood before him, Sherlock could barely drag his eyes open, and he gazed at John with heavy lids.

John gazed back with fathomless blue eyes, a hand on his own stiff prick. “Tell me you want this.”

It was so easy now. “I want _you_.”

A hint of a smile. “Ask for this.”

“John, I—”

“And don’t say _fuck._ ”

Ah. Not just because he was a doctor, then. “What should I say?”

“Tell me what you want.”

 _Oh_. This was hard.

John was… _challenging_ _him._ John always challenged him. To ask for what he wanted, to lay himself bare, to _feel._ To _risk_. To risk everything.

Well, if John was there, he could do it. He could do it, because there was nothing, _nothing_ he wanted more than this.

“I want you, inside me, filling me up, taking care. Of me.” He swallowed, winced a little. “Loving me.” More. “Making love to me.” There.

“Like you did to me.”

 _Ah._ John had noticed, had known all along. Of course he had. Sherlock almost shrugged, though, at how calm he felt, after how frightened he’d been. “Yes, like that.”

“I love you.” John didn’t just expand, he _glowed._

It was wonderful, really. Wonderful and heartfelt and warm, and the last thing of all the things that Sherlock had ever really wanted, the last thing he needed to be completely, blissfully happy for his whole life but John was still stood there with his own cock in his hand and this interlude had gone on _quite_ long enough.

“I love you, too, John.” He let the moment stretch a little longer. Then, because he was still Sherlock no matter what went where: “All sorted now? Good. Now will you please, please, _please_ stop talking and put that where it belongs?” Because honestly.

John began his thrust with a chuckle but ended it with a growl, sliding sure and strong and all the way in, and _staying_ there, pressed deep inside, as all the petulance and humour drained out of them both to be replaced with wide eyes and gasps and trembling legs and _oh god._

In another moment, John’s wide eyes went dark and dangerous again, and Sherlock was glad, because feelings were all well and good but John Watson with his cock up Sherlock’s arse should not be entirely safe.

The authority settled over John’s shoulders. Like a mantle—had he thought that before? John, taking command. Rising to it.

Sherlock could almost see it, the way John grew bigger. His shoulders squared, straightened. His chest rose, his body… _expanded._ He was no larger than he’d ever been but when Sherlock took a breath there wasn’t enough air because John Watson was suddenly taking up all of the space in the room.

John’s movements were slow, pressing all the way in before drawing all the way—almost all the way—back. Slow, and gentle, but firm, and purposeful. John, but increased. He grew taller. He _loomed_ over Sherlock, covered him, surrounded him, enfolding his entire body on the outside while thrusting deep inside it.

John was everywhere. John was _magnificent._

 _Sensations._ There was John’s body, flushed and glowing and larger-than-life; there was the squeeze of his hands grasping Sherlock’s hips, the fingertips almost clenched, almost bruising; there were John’s deep rumblings, and Sherlock’s own gasped breaths, and the wet squelch of lubricated flesh; the intense stretch and burn and _fill_ at the base of his spine, the pressure deep within him, the occasional bright flash of pure pleasure when the angle shifted, briefly, then away again; and the smell, the _smell_ of them, straight off a case; the smell of John’s sweat and John’s groin and of Sherlock’s own arse.

Sherlock wanted every one of those sensations, and every sentiment they wrung from him.

He was every bit as raw and open as he’d imagined himself at his most terrified. His leg was crooked over John’s shoulder, his hair was sweaty and tangled, and his hand scrabbled desperately at the bedsheets. He had no control over the sounds he was making, the harsh panting, the grunts that were almost sobs, or the his own frantic moans that gradually rose in pitch and volume until they were high, keening wails, inarticulate but for his futile attempts to form John’s name with his dry mouth, stretched wide.

“Joh—! J—! Jo—!” and then only the catch of his voice and the rasp of his breath.

And all the while, John’s intense gaze, John’s firm hands, gripping his thigh, John’s steady thrusts, John’s strong, strong body in complete control of every staggering, shattering, crushing sensation. John, terrible and dire and _dangerous,_ and keeping Sherlock safe.

This was John, _taking care_. It was no less frightening for all that John loved him, and he now knew it.

Because _care_ , under the hands of John Watson, _shattered glass and bloodied faces,_ was still a little risky.

When John’s hand suddenly closed in earnest around Sherlock’s leaking cock, he thought he might leap out of his own skin at the intensity. _Wait, John, no, I can’t, I can’t_ , he couldn’t take another escalation—

—but John’s grip was suddenly gentle, his hands still strong but now soft somehow as well, and his strokes were not fast or furious but quiet and firm, and the snap of his hips became a long, slow roll, and he carried Sherlock over that final precipice with warm kisses pressed to his leg and smooth caresses on his body, and the breaths of his whispered name across his skin.

“Sherlock. _Sherlock._ Sherlock.” One more long thrust, and John came, the last waves of Sherlock’s orgasm still flowing around his cock, and they kept their eyes open at the last, and gazed their fill.

***

They lay together afterwards, of course they did. John eased Sherlock’s leg off his shoulder and brought him fully onto the bed before fetching a flannel to clean them both off. He settled himself alongside Sherlock with a deep sigh.

They were silent for a time. Finally, John said, “I can hear you thinking. That’s never good.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes barely fluttering. “I _am_ a genius, John. Wouldn’t be much of one if I didn’t think occasionally.” The lassitude in his voice took the snip out of his words. Almost all of his questions were answered anyway.

“What have you got hold of this time?” John’s voice was also languid. Idly curious, no more. Not...troubled. Not at all. _Good._

One small thing, though. Sherlock frowned, seeking the words. “That wasn’t—”

“No? I thought it was.” John’s face was pressed to his chest, but Sherlock could feel his smile.

“ _John_.” He wasn’t making this easier. “You did it, you did what you said, you— _took care of me._ ” Ridiculously sentimental, but true.

John’s smile widened at that. “Well, yes. I hope so.”

“But when we talked about...this kind of sex, you said—about controlling, being responsible, taking care. You said it didn’t mean that. To you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“But—?”

“But you do.”

“I—” Sherlock blinked. “In fact, you said that none of it means anything at all.” He willed John to understand what he was asking.

“It _doesn’t_ , Sherlock. On its own, it doesn’t.” John raised his head, took his hand. Looked at him. “It’s not the sex, Sherlock. It’s _you._ Or, if you like, it’s _us._ It means what _we_ mean. Different every time.” He kissed the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. “And bloody amazing _every_ time, if our attempts so far are any indication.”

“So…” Sherlock was reasonably certain he understood, but John was being forthcoming, was completing sentences, was completing sentences _about feelings_ , and this was not to be wasted. “So what did this mean, today?”

“You don’t know?” John gave him an incredulous grin.

Sherlock’s cheeks heated. “I—It would be good to hear you say it.”

John’s grin turned warm and crinkled. “Fine, all right. It did mean care. Of course it did. It will always mean that, Sherlock, no matter what we do. I always want to take care of you.”

Sherlock didn’t even try to contain his small smile, at that. “You do, John. You always do. I should have seen it.”

John brushed the curls back from Sherlock’s face, matching his smile. “And it also meant that I love you, body and mind, which is what it means every time, for me, since the start. Otherwise I wouldn’t have started it. I’m sorry that wasn’t clear.”

Sherlock’s breath came out in a soft sigh.

John wasn’t finished yet, though. “And this time, it meant that you finally knew it.”

“And you know, too? That I, that I love you?”

The broadest grin yet, wide and luminous. “Yeah. I’ve known that for a while.”

Sherlock felt his own smile settle on his face. He didn’t bother to ask John how he knew. John was a genius too, after all.

***

After that, there was no kind of sex that either of them balked at trying—at least, no kind that either of them ever suggested. Penetrative sex (John eventually relented and occasionally allowed them to _fuck_ , but only rarely) was a favourite, and they tried it in an imaginative range of positions. Nothing was entirely off the table, for all that they each had their preferences.

Sherlock never quite relaxed when he was topping John, so determined was he to make it the best possible experience for him. And bottoming never quite lost its edge, either. John was always a little unpredictable, and looked for ways to challenge Sherlock’s expectations, so that Sherlock could never entirely relax, for all that he knew he was safe under John’s hands.

Because _safe_ , when it was with John _,_ was always risky, at least a little.

-End-

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's Internet search:  
> [5 Tips to Losing Your Anal Virginity with Aplomb](http://www.queerty.com/five-tips-to-losing-your-anal-virginity-with-aplomb-20140329)  
> [How to Get Fucked](https://www.gmfa.org.uk/how-to-get-fucked)  
> [How to Be a Better Bottom](http://www.soc.ucsb.edu/sexinfo/article/how-be-better-bottom-guide-gay-and-curious-men)


End file.
